


Then & Now

by marchingjaybird



Category: FlashForward
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:43:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demetri Noh, then and now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then & Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isabeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabeau/gifts).



It's a dangerous line of work.

This is something that Dem knows, has known, ever since he decided to join up with the FBI. It wasn't one of those dreams that he'd had since he was a kid, or any kind of driving urge to uphold justice. It was a job, and a good one, and he has always thought that perhaps he's making a difference. For every terrorist he catches, he saves lives, averts another 9/11. It's a good feeling, and it's what keeps him in the suit, at the office, day after day after day.

It's what keeps him from getting out of the SUV and marching over to the building their suspect has just entered, because as satisfying as that would be, it would also be against the rules. Demetri isn't really a follower – though he's certainly not as bad as Mark – but even he understands the importance of doing things by the book. They can catch all the perps they want, but if there's no conviction, there's no point. So he sits and does the crossword and every so often he glances over at Mark and takes in the stony expression and doesn't say anything.

Two across. Twelve down. His pen scratches against the newspaper and he hums under his breath a little bit as he works. He doesn't believe in doing crosswords in pencil; you've got to be decisive about these sorts of things. The answer might be wrong, but you have to commit to it. He doesn't realize it, but the tip of his tongue is sticking out of the corner of his mouth and he doesn't even notice when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It's a text message from Zoey, but he won't get it until after they're back at the office.

He's idly wondering why no one ever uses "antidisestablishmentarianism" as a crossword answer when Mark starts the engine. The crossword is discarded, forgotten on the floorboards of the car, and he leans forward against his seatbelt. This is what he likes about the job, the culmination of all of the research and wiretapping and picture-taking and endless stakeouts.

The SUV screams out into the road and Dem bites his tongue, holds his breath. Mark drives like a crazy person, way too fast, but it doesn't really matter. No one is going to try to pull them over and it's important for them to keep up. This guy has been avoiding them for far too long, and if he gets away again, they'll never hear the end of it. Mostly from each other, and from themselves; self-recrimination is a very real, very painful part of the job, but it's one that Demetri has learned to live with.

"Going too fast," he remarks, gripping the dash to keep from being thrown across the car. Mark grunts and Dem smiles. It's a quick little grimace, a flash of teeth behind thin lips, and it's all his. He likes that about the job. So much of it belongs solely to him. He tells Zoey about it, as much as he is able, but he necessarily keeps some of it from her. There is a certain weight to the gun at his side that is entirely non-physical, a coldness that comes with the drawing of it. It's so different from the antsy, palm-sweating jitteriness that accompanies the thought of having to use it; even after all these years, he hasn't been able to shake that sensation, and he doesn't think he ever will. He doesn't want to, though. He's sure that once the prospect of drawing his gun ceases to terrify him, he will have lost some essential piece of himself that's impossible to regain.

Now, though, in the heat of the chase, with Mark grim and silent beside him, Demetri's hand goes to his gun and he strains against the seatbelt, willing the SUV to go faster, willing the men they're chasing to make a mistake. People are moving out of their way, a cacophony of horn-blowing and name-calling flowing out behind them like the wake of a ship. Dem laughs and Mark peels his eyes from the road for a split-second to smirk at him, and then the car they've been tailing – _the Bad Guys_, Dem calls them in his head, even though he knows it's childish and he would never say it out loud – the Bad Guys clip the curb and spin wildly out of control and they've got it in the bag.

Mark pulls the SUV right up on their tail and he's out the door in a flash. Not as quick as Demetri, though, who is on the pavement, gun in hand, cold and cool and entirely in his element as he shouts for the suspects to get out of the car with their hands raised.

***

There's another suspect, another chase, another car, and another freeway.

There's Demetri, and the crossword, and the gun. There's Zoey, so far away, and Mark, right here beside him. There are hundreds of people on the road, hundreds of cars in their neat lines, none of them knowing that it's all about to go to hell. They speed along their way, wrapped in their own thoughts, feeling their own weights and troubles, singing to the music on their iPods or talking to their loved ones or sitting in grim silence, wondering why they bother.

It's the same all over the state. The same all over the country. The same all over the world. They go about their lives, millions of people, utterly unknowing. It strikes them all at once, global blackout, and Dem doesn't have time to think, doesn't have time to wonder why Mark suddenly slouches at the wheel, why all of the cars on the road suddenly slew to the side or strike the car in front of them. He doesn't hear the crunching, screaming, grinding sounds of tortured metal. He doesn't see the brief blossoms of flame, the cars flipping up and over, spinning out of control.

Demetri Noh closes his eyes, and he doesn't see a thing.


End file.
